Continent—it seems silly to speak of 'the Continent,' but really it is all more like itself than any part of it is like England. England is unique. Do have another jelly first. I was going to say that the Continent, for good or for evil, is interested in ideas. Its Literature and Art have what one might call the kink of the unseen about them, and this persists even through decadence and affectation. There is more liberty of action in England, but for liberty of thought go to bureaucratic Prussia. People will there discuss with humility vital questions that we here think ourselves too good to touch with tongs."
"I do not want to go to Prussia," said Mrs. Wilcox "not even to see that interesting view that you were describing. And for discussing with humility I am too old. We never discuss anything at Howards End."
"Then you ought to!" said Margaret. "Discussion keeps a house alive. It cannot stand by bricks and mortar alone."
"It cannot stand without them," said Mrs. Wilcox, unexpectedly catching on to the thought, and rousing, for the first and last time, a faint hope in the breasts of the delightful people. "It cannot stand without them, and I sometimes think—But I cannot expect your generation to agree, for even my daughter disagrees with me here."
"Never mind us or her. Do say!"
"I sometimes think that it is wiser to leave action and discussion to men."
There was a little silence.
"One admits that the arguments against the suffrage ARE extraordinarily strong," said a girl opposite, leaning forward and crumbling her bread.
"Are they? I never follow any arguments. I am only too thankful not to have a vote myself."
"We didn’t mean the vote, though, did we?" supplied Margaret. "Aren’t we differing on something much wider, Mrs. Wilcox? Whether women are to remain what they have been since the dawn of history; or whether, since men have moved forward so far, they too may move forward a little now. I say they may. I would even admit a biological change."
"I don’t know, I don’t know."
"I must be getting back to my overhanging warehouse," said the man. "They’ve turned disgracefully strict."
Mrs. Wilcox also rose.
"Oh, but come upstairs for a little. Miss Quested plays. Do you like MacDowell? Do you mind his only having two noises? If you must really go, I’ll see you out. Won’t you even have coffee?"
They left the dining–room closing the door behind them, and as Mrs. Wilcox buttoned up her jacket, she said: "What an interesting life you all lead in London!"
"No, we don’t," said Margaret, with a sudden revulsion. "We lead the lives of gibbering monkeys. Mrs. Wilcox—really—We have something quiet and stable at the bottom. We really have. All my friends have. Don’t pretend you enjoyed lunch, for you loathed it, but forgive me by coming again, alone, or by asking me to you."
"I am used to young people," said Mrs. Wilcox, and with each word she spoke the outlines of known things grew dim. "I hear a great deal of chatter at home, for we, like you, entertain a great deal. With us it is more sport and politics, but—I enjoyed my lunch very much, Miss Schlegel, dear, and am not pretending, and only wish I could have joined in more. For one thing, I’m not particularly well just to–day. For another, you younger people move so quickly that it dazes me. Charles is the same, Dolly the same. But we are all in the same boat, old and young. I never forget that."
They were silent for a moment. Then, with a newborn emotion, they shook hands. The conversation ceased suddenly when Margaret re–entered the dining–room; her friends had been talking over her new friend, and had dismissed her as uninteresting.
CHAPTER X
Several days passed.
Was Mrs. Wilcox one of the unsatisfactory people—there are many of them—who dangle intimacy and then withdraw it? They evoke our interests and affections, and keep the life of the spirit dawdling round them. Then they withdraw. When physical passion is
"I do not want to go to Prussia," said Mrs. Wilcox "not even to see that interesting view that you were describing. And for discussing with humility I am too old. We never discuss anything at Howards End."
"Then you ought to!" said Margaret. "Discussion keeps a house alive. It cannot stand by bricks and mortar alone."
"It cannot stand without them," said Mrs. Wilcox, unexpectedly catching on to the thought, and rousing, for the first and last time, a faint hope in the breasts of the delightful people. "It cannot stand without them, and I sometimes think—But I cannot expect your generation to agree, for even my daughter disagrees with me here."
"Never mind us or her. Do say!"
"I sometimes think that it is wiser to leave action and discussion to men."
There was a little silence.
"One admits that the arguments against the suffrage ARE extraordinarily strong," said a girl opposite, leaning forward and crumbling her bread.
"Are they? I never follow any arguments. I am only too thankful not to have a vote myself."
"We didn’t mean the vote, though, did we?" supplied Margaret. "Aren’t we differing on something much wider, Mrs. Wilcox? Whether women are to remain what they have been since the dawn of history; or whether, since men have moved forward so far, they too may move forward a little now. I say they may. I would even admit a biological change."
"I don’t know, I don’t know."
"I must be getting back to my overhanging warehouse," said the man. "They’ve turned disgracefully strict."
Mrs. Wilcox also rose.
"Oh, but come upstairs for a little. Miss Quested plays. Do you like MacDowell? Do you mind his only having two noises? If you must really go, I’ll see you out. Won’t you even have coffee?"
They left the dining–room closing the door behind them, and as Mrs. Wilcox buttoned up her jacket, she said: "What an interesting life you all lead in London!"
"No, we don’t," said Margaret, with a sudden revulsion. "We lead the lives of gibbering monkeys. Mrs. Wilcox—really—We have something quiet and stable at the bottom. We really have. All my friends have. Don’t pretend you enjoyed lunch, for you loathed it, but forgive me by coming again, alone, or by asking me to you."
"I am used to young people," said Mrs. Wilcox, and with each word she spoke the outlines of known things grew dim. "I hear a great deal of chatter at home, for we, like you, entertain a great deal. With us it is more sport and politics, but—I enjoyed my lunch very much, Miss Schlegel, dear, and am not pretending, and only wish I could have joined in more. For one thing, I’m not particularly well just to–day. For another, you younger people move so quickly that it dazes me. Charles is the same, Dolly the same. But we are all in the same boat, old and young. I never forget that."
They were silent for a moment. Then, with a newborn emotion, they shook hands. The conversation ceased suddenly when Margaret re–entered the dining–room; her friends had been talking over her new friend, and had dismissed her as uninteresting.
CHAPTER X
Several days passed.
Was Mrs. Wilcox one of the unsatisfactory people—there are many of them—who dangle intimacy and then withdraw it? They evoke our interests and affections, and keep the life of the spirit dawdling round them. Then they withdraw. When physical passion is
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